


A Winter Well Spent

by Ercasse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-13 22:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse
Summary: AU. Drabble-fic.The Battle of Breanna is over and the Northern Army has demanded the heads of the fifty-five Socia'tael Officers of the Vrihedd Brigade. A certain Witcher happens to be in the area and rescues a young elvish officer. They spend a winter dealing with the consequences.





	1. Shock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faeriesung](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeriesung/gifts).



> This prompt was an exchange with Faeriesung (Ao3). Thank you for making me write something I wouldn't normally take on. 
> 
> AU - You basically want to throw your Witcher timeline out the window.

**Lughnasadh, 1268**

 

The elf shifts again and Geralt swears. He’d hoped they would make it further than this. He urges Roach into a faster gait, hoping the Aen Seidhe will sink back into unconsciousness. But it looks like his luck has run out. Iorveth is stirring.

Geralt briefly considers rendering the elf unconscious, but he’s so badly wounded Geralt doesn’t want to risk giving him additional trauma to the head. He curses and guides Roach into the densest scrub he can see. He slides from the horse’s back and holds Iorveth in place while he throws canvass and blankets onto the damp grass. Then he drags Iorveth’s prone figure from the saddle and lays him down.

Iorveth is shaking with cold, despite the heavy cloak Geralt has wrapped him in. Beads of sweat have formed on this forehead and the wrapping over the right side of his face is dark with blood.

His left eye flutters open and stares uncomprehendingly up at him. He tries to move, but Geralt has wrapped the blankets tightly around him to prevent further damage to his injuries.

Iorveth moans in pain. The elf is incomprehensible with fever.

Geralt knows he cannot risk drugging him in such a state. He changes the wrapping around the Aen Seidhe’s head and forces some water down his throat. And then he settles next to the elf, doing his best to block the wind with his body.

There’s nothing else to do but wait...


	2. Denial

**_Velen, 1268_ **

 

“You’re lying! Why should I believe anything that comes from the mouth of a dh’oine – king or beggar, your word is worthless! It was one of your kings who promised us land and sovereignty in return for the use of our army and look how we are repaid!”

Iorveth is practically trembling with rage.

Geralt tenses, although he is reasonably sure the elf lacks the strength to attack him in his current state.

“I am neither Nilfgaardian, a king, nor a dh’oine.” Geralt reminds him evenly.

“Ah yes, the ‘impartiality’ of a vatt’ghern. So impartial you would stand by and watch as my race are exterminated.” Iorveth glares hatefully up at him.

“You would have me take on both the Nilfgaardian and Northern armies single-handedly?” Geralt’s patience is wearing thin, and he pauses to master himself. “I would have come sooner, if I’d known just what this ‘treaty’ was going to entail. You might not believe me – but I will carry that regret to the end of my days.”

 “You could have saved him!” Iorveth snarled. “Your potions – “

“-- are lethal to all but Witchers.” Geralt cuts him off sharply. “I counted Isengrim as one of my friends. He was _dying,_ Iorveth. One of his wounds was infected and had poisoned his blood –“

“ – sepsis can be treated –“

“His organs were _failing._ Even if I had brought him with me, he would have had another day at best. A day spent in agony – and for what?”

“If you would not waste time on your _friend,_ then why bother now? We’ve barely spoken five words together.” Iorveth says bitterly. His eye is suspiciously shiny in the firelight.

“I did it because Isengrim asked.”

“What?”

Geralt regards the young Scoia’tael officer for a moment.

“Isengrim wanted me to save you.”

And with that the Witcher retreats into the small cottage’s other room, to allow his patient a measure of privacy. (And perhaps to stop himself from snapping at the grieving _Aen Seidhe)._

They would both miss Isengrim Faoiltiarna. To his people he’d been a fierce warrior and beloved leader.  To Geralt he’d been a good friend. And to Iorveth? Geralt could only guess. A mentor? A father figure?

 


	3. Anger

**_Saovine, 1268_ **

 

The sound of shattering crockery sends Geralt hurtling for the small storeroom.

He arrives just in time to see Iorveth strike a water jug to pieces on the floor; a sweep of his arm sends three bowls after it.

When he whirls towards the food stores, Geralt dives for him and slams him into the wall.

Iorveth howls in pain and lashes out at his new target. The elf is growing stronger, but still in no shape for fighting. Geralt grips an arm and puts counter-pressure on it warningly. If the elf wants his arm to remain unbroken, he will cease resisting.

Just when Geralt thinks he’s going to call his bluff, Iorveth finally stops, panting slightly with the effort. Absurdly, Geralt realises that they are almost of a height. This gives him an excellent view of the depths of Iorveth’s anger and the livid red scars slashing down his right cheek and cutting into his lip.

“Are you finished?”

Iorveth bristles and swears fluently at him in elvish.

“You’re welcome to keep trying if you like.”

And so Iorveth spends a few more minutes attempting to strike out at the swordsman. Geralt just grips him tightly and allows him to rage.

Finally, the elf just _stops._

Warily, Geralt relaxes his hold.

Iorveth sags against him, resting his forehead to the Witcher’s shoulder. His breathing hitches tellingly and before Geralt knows it, he’s kneeling on the floor with an elf crying brokenly into his shirt.

The Witcher murmurs soothingly to him, much the same way as he sometimes does to calm Roach.

Eventually the elf goes quiet.

Geralt shifts his weight slightly, so that the bit of pottery no longer presses quite so hard into his shin. It makes a quiet crunching noise underneath him and Iorveth glances at the floor.

“I’ll clean the mess.” He pulls away.

“You should go wash your face. I’ll deal with it.”

Iorveth chokes out a laugh. “I doubt tears could make my face look any worse.”

Geralt snorts before he can help himself. “At least you’re in good company.” He points to the long scar running across his own face. “Neither of us are winning any beauty contests.”

“My life’s ambition, of course. Perhaps now I’ll be able to scare my enemies to death.”

Geralt locks gazes with him. “Something tells me your scarring is going to be the least of their concerns.”

“True. One day, _Gwynbleidd_ , my name will be all it takes to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.”

Geralt believes him.

 


	4. Bargaining

“Get out of the way, _vatt’ghern_.”

“No.”

“I want to leave. Or am I now a prisoner?”

“I cannot let you leave, knowing what you mean to do.”

“Those villagers you are protecting were responsible for the deaths our civilians!”

“How do you know who’s responsible? Or will you slaughter every man, woman and child in the place?”

“If I must.”

“Then you are no better than your enemy.”

“Our civilians were defenceless!”

“And so are they! You cannot condemn an entire village for the actions of a few!”

“A few rotten apples will spoil an entire barrel. This is the same.”

“It’s not, and you know it. Think, Iorveth! What do you gain by attacking a village? It does _nothing_ for your cause. _Pick battles big enough to matter_.”

Iorveth reacts as if he’s been slapped. Geralt has deliberately thrown Isingrim’s oft-quoted advice at him.

And then he advances on Geralt, his eye promising violence. 

The Witcher draws his silver sword. “I cannot let you carry out your plan.”

“Then you are going to have to kill me to stop me.”

Geralt’s sword snaps up as he defends himself. He knows he needs to end this as quickly as possible. He uses the flat of his blade, predictably enraging the elf. And then there is an opening and his pommel connects with Iorveth’s temple – hard. The elf crashes to the ground, unconscious.

Geralt’s blade hovers near his throat. Right now Iorveth is a monster dwelling in an _Aen Seidhe_ body.

Finally the Witcher moves away, sheathing his sword. He wonders if he will regret his decision…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Isengrim's quote by Jonathan Kozol.  
> "Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win."


	5. Depression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone was worried about possible triggers in this one - it deals with drinking. When I signed myself up for this challenge, I decided to complete all the word prompts without question.
> 
> Feel free to skip it if you feel uncomfortable in any way. 
> 
> Also - I am in no way claiming to portray the essence of depression in this scene. Fictional characters, fictional setting.

When Geralt gets back from his hunt, the hearth is long cold and Iorveth does not look to have moved from his spot in the blankets. Geralt’s been out in the forest for two days.

Fear grips him for a moment until he moves close enough to hear the elf’s slow breathing.

“Iorveth.”

No response.

Sweat, Iorveth’s scent and….spirits?

Geralt moves in front of him and spies the bottle hidden under a fold of blanket. It’s empty. It was also pure vodka.

Geralt kneels down and shakes him until the elf stirs.

“…Geralt? You’re….back.” His words are slurred.

The Witcher curses under his breath.

“Iorveth. When did you last eat something?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you last eat?”

Iorveth spaces out and Geralt is about to prompt him again, when he replies.

“Oats. You said Roach will be angry.”

“Shit.” The elf hasn’t eaten anything since he’s been gone. It’s a wonder he’s still functioning at all.  

The tips of Iorveth’s ears have a blue tinge to them. Geralt throws some large logs on the fire and signs _Igni_ to set them ablaze.

He pulls the unprotesting elf to his feet and, after seeing how unsteady Iorveth is, picks him up and carries him outside to the crude privy hut. The Aen Seidhe hisses as the snow touches his bare feet.

“Don’t fall in. I’m not saving you.” Geralt admonishes him and shuts the door between them.

And then he steps away and deliberately starts singing the first thing that comes to mind. Which is a drinking song. How ironic.

Iorveth manages to stagger out again after emptying his bladder and Geralt throws him over a shoulder and heads back for the cottage.

Geralt fills a small tub (they’ve been using as a bath) with buckets of snow and then he uses a few low-strength _igni_ charms to melt, then heat the water to an acceptable temperature.  

He helps Iorveth strip after losing patience with the elf’s clumsiness and dumps buckets of water over his head once he’s sat in the tub. Iorveth is strangely docile when drunk, Geralt decides.

He grabs for a bar of soap and begins to scrub the elf’s scalp. The elf sighs and tilts his head back for the Witcher. Geralt is careful not to wash the soap into his face – they’d found out the hard way that lye irritates the elf’s scar tissue – making it patchy and sore.

He leaves the soap with Iorveth and instructs him to finish washing.

Geralt quickly unloads his kills in the small building he’s using to store game. They are only rabbits, so he packs them in snow whole. He’s glad he’d taken the time to skin them where he’d caught them.

He cleans himself up, and then re-enters the cottage. Iorveth has managed to return to the blankets and is now shivering underneath them.

“Eat.” Geralt offers him a piece of hard biscuit and a mug full of warm water. The grain should soak up some of the alcohol in his stomach at least. The elf complies.

The Witcher is storing his gear when Iorveth speaks.

“Geralt?”

“Yes?”

“Are Witchers able to sleep?”

“Yes, though it’s unnecessary. Sleep is useful when we are healing.”

“Oh. You – never need your blankets then?”

Geralt moves over to him.

“I don’t feel the cold that much.”

“Oh.” Disappointment flashes across the elf’s face.

“What is it, Iorveth?”

Iorveth hesitates, even with an alcohol-loosened tongue. “Please sleep next to me? I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold before…”

Geralt blinks in surprise and Iorveth obviously takes his as a rejection.

“I overstep myself…I –“

“Move over.” Geralt directs him.

Iorveth shifts away until Geralt is settled, then crowds him, pressing icy limbs against the Witcher. It’s almost as if he’s been standing outside, rather than curled into a pile of blankets. Soon the right-side of his face is pressed against the Witcher’s shoulder.

“It’s so cold my face wouldn’t stop aching….” He muttered into Geralt’s arm.

“So you drank an entire bottle of vodka.”

“I drank some. And then wondered what it would be like to be drunk –“

“ – you’ve never been drunk before?”

“ _Ne’én._ I wasn’t old enough – and then it wasn’t safe. And then I joined the _Scoia’tael._ Alcohol was banned for ranking officers.”

“How old are you, Iorveth?”

“67.”

Geralt gapes at him for a moment, though the elf cannot see. If he were human, Iorveth would be in his mid-twenties. No wonder he’d caused an uproar amongst Isengrim’s people!

He’s still marvelling at this new piece of information moments later, and almost misses Iorveth’s next words.

“I thought it might help with the dreams…”

Geralt just wraps his arms around the elf. He has a feeling embraces have been much like alcohol – unsafe and probably unsuitable for a youth working to earn his stripes – or bolts as they were known to the _Scoia’tael._

“They will slow with time, though you will never be totally free of them.” He offers truthfully.

“Try to sleep – you are going to regret downing the entire bottle in the morning…”

 

***

 

It takes a few days until Geralt learns how to meditate lying down. He falls asleep on his first few nights, but then he discovers the knack and can choose which form of rest he’d rather pursue.

It takes another handful of days before the Witcher learns to meditate deeply – despite having an elf curled into him. Iorveth’s nightmares still pull him out of his trance, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. He simply shakes the elf awake and listens if it’s welcome; or sinks back into meditation if Iorveth’s not inclined, or half-asleep already...


	6. Testing

_**Yule, 1268** _

 

“Iorveth!”

“Here, _Gwynbleidd.”_ The voice comes from behind the shed.

When he rounds the corner, Geralt spies the elf. He sits on a small tree stump, a long dagger in his left hand. He is butchering the deer he’d managed to bring down that morning. It had been a welcome addition to their stores, given the lateness of the year.

The Witcher pauses, distracted by the elf’s sudden change in appearance.

A light blue fabric (from one of Geralt’s old shirts) has been wrapped around the _Aen Seidhe’s_ head and knotted at his nape. He turns to regard Geralt and the man notes the right side has been pulled down further to cover his missing eye and part of his cheek.

“That look suits you.” he comments, offhandedly.

Iorveth shrugs. “It stops the chill. Will be kinder on my conversation partners too, I suspect.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to shrug. “Your scarring doesn’t unsettle me.”

“Yes, but you are a _vatt’ghern._ You are used to looking at all sorts of ugliness on this earth.”

“I don’t consider you ugly, either.”

Iorveth sighs, exasperatedly. “In any case, it will keep out the weather and the potential for infection until the skin hardens into its own barrier.”

“If you use green or brown cloth, you’d blend into the forest better.”

Iorveth laughs. “An _Aen Seidhe_ needs no help ‘blending into” the forest. I could wear bright red clothing and still not be seen, if I choose not to be. In fact –“ Iorveth trails off suddenly.

“What?”

“Red.”

“Red?” Geralt parrots.

“My next bandanna is going to be red. Crimson, I think.”

Geralt holds his tongue, having learnt that elves are peculiar about their attire. Both the males and the females. He tries to imagine Iorveth with a crimson headscarf and finds it surprisingly fitting. Knowing this is a safe enough remark, he says as much to the elf.

 “Of course it is, _Gwynbleidd_.” He gestures with the knife as he speaks. “Besides, the leader of an army should always have a well-known quirk.”

Geralt is amused by his matter-of-factness.

“Let me see if I have this right – you’re going to acquire a red, sorry – _crimson_ – headscarf; amass and command an army –“ Geralt begins to count off his fingers.

 “ – and fight for the freedom of my people.”

“And then?”

Iorveth ponders.

“Never eat hard biscuit again. Bathe in hot water for days. Travel to Kovir.”

“Why Kovir?”

“It doesn’t snow there.”

“Ah.”

 


	7. Acceptance

**_Imbolc, 1269_ **

 

Geralt stalks his prey, careful to keep upwind and to the right. He circles closer, using his skills to tread silently over the snow. The Witcher pauses for a moment. No reaction.

Steel sword in hand, he springs forward and attacks.

Iorveth jerks the silver sword up at the last minute and manages to block Geralt’s blow. It’s slightly clumsy, but effective.

With lightning-quick reflexes, he skips backwards putting himself out of the reach of Geralt’s sword.

“Unfair.” His green eye tracks the Witcher intently.

Geralt attacks again, and Iorveth is ready – he fends off another blow and counters with his own. They circle each other, swords poised.

“Should I have hired a town crier?”

 “If I remember correctly, you were supposed to be impersonating a _dh’oine_ – stop that!” he presses Geralt with a series of spinning slashes in response to Geralt’s latest trick. (He’s deliberately putting himself on the edge of Iorveth’s vision).

“I _am_ being a _dh’oine.”_

“If you were serious about it, you would have crashed through the forest, spouted some sort of rubbish at me, and then attacked.” Iorveth smirks at him.

“Die, pointy-eared bastard.” Geralt deadpans.

Iorveth barks a laugh and engages with the Witcher again.

The length of these matches are growing, and Geralt finds he does not have to run through his forms to keep in fighting shape anymore. Successfully sneaking up on the elf is becoming rarer as well.

Iorveth’s weapon of choice will always be a bow, but he’s no less of an expert at sword work.

Eventually they call a halt, and head in the direction of the cottage.

Out in the open, the snow is beginning to turn into mud and slush – the quickening season will shortly be upon them and the mountain pass will thaw.

The rest of the realm is about to become accessible again after the winter solitude Geralt has imposed on them both.

Iorveth darts off the path from time to time, always looking for straight branches he can turn into arrows. Geralt observes him surreptitiously.

Iorveth is lean – they both are – after a winter spent eating only what they could find or make from their crude supplies. Broken ribs and bones have mended and there is strength in his muscles again.

His facial scarring has healed well, all things considered. The slice on his cheek may yet fade into Iorveth’s more natural skin tone. Nightmares still plague him but there is a strength now – a resilience and determination about him.

Geralt is satisfied he’s kept his word to Isengrim. Iorveth is alive and as fit as any elf Geralt’s ever seen. They will part ways in a few weeks, and then it will be up to Iorveth to choose his own path.

The elvish rebellion is alive and beating in Iorveth’s chest.

 

“Hurry up, Geralt, I’m hungry and you’re moving like _en hen dh’oine!”_

 

 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. ^_^  
> Un-beta'ed so please let me know if you spot any mistakes.


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